


Hail Aphrodite

by rillrill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Hand Jobs, Ice Queen, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Yet if this is what he desires—a firm hand, a strong command, the Queen in the North and her mockingbird on his knees before her—she will provide it. She will not trust and she will not love, but she will desire.</i>
</p>
<p>An encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hail Aphrodite

**Author's Note:**

> Life is crazy right now. Here's some smut. I don't really know.
> 
> Title is from David Ives' play _Venus in Fur_.

_I ask for so little… Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave.  
— Labyrinth_

 

It is late in the evening, well after supper, when Sansa returns to her bedchamber. Half a year has scarcely elapsed since her husband’s death during a stag hunt, but the Queen in the North no longer mourns. She had not known Harry long enough to love him, and he had not given her reason enough to do so. Perhaps when she was a younger girl, she might have fallen in love simply with his graceful form or handsome face, but by the time she lowered her bridecloak at their wedding, she had long learned that men were not to be loved on sight. She is a woman of eight and ten now, and such girlish whims are behind her.

She is still in her heavy dress of the day, emerald wool with delicate gold embroidery along the sleeves and collar. Though her maids have set a crackling fire in the room’s fireplace, she still feels a chill, so as she curls up at her writing desk and takes up a piece of parchment, she slides a fur blanket over her lap.

A knock sounds at the door, and she looks up, sliding a few spare bits of paper over her half-completed work. She had asked a handmaid to bring her a cup of mulled wine nearly an hour ago; the girl must have forgotten until now. “Come in,” she calls, doing her best to hide her irritation. 

But the visitor at the door is not Myra the handmaid, but Lord Baelish, wearing his black fur traveling cloak and black leather boots, a fine layer of snow still dusting his hair and shoulders. “My queen,” he says, inclining his head. “I hope I have not interrupted you.”

She holds back a small smile. “Of course not, my lord,” she says. She rises gracefully, letting her blanket slide to the floor, and crosses the room to greet him with a soft kiss, taking pains to be sure the door is closed before she does. His lips are chilled from the winter wind. He must have come straight to her apartments, she realizes, as a first order of business upon his return. The thought pleases her, and she smiles against those quickly-warming lips as she pulls away. “I hope you have not been terribly taxed by your journey.”

“I’m better now, for being here,” he says. He unbuttons his traveling cloak and hangs it from a hook near her door. The chair near the fire is empty, and he takes a seat in it without so much as a second glance at her. “And you, Sansa? How have you held up, on your own for the past month?”

“I have been well,” Sansa says, as she returns to her writing table. With a look of feigned disinterest, she begins to sort through her papers. If Petyr wishes to hold out against the inevitable, she’ll humor him. She knows, after all, why he is here, why he came first to her bedchamber before his own upon his arrival. 

She had not understood his desires at first. Her experience with men who wanted to touch her had led her to believe that were all of a kind, and his were so different, so unusual, that she was taken aback at first, bewildered and knowing not what to say. But it did not take so long for her to realize that Petyr’s particular tastes were ones she found appealing as well. 

Sansa heaves a small sigh, signaling for his attention. “I sent for a cup of mulled wine from the kitchens ages ago,” she says, not looking up from her papers. “Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me, as my handmaid seems to have gotten lost on the way?”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Petyr cock his head, as if amused. He would not have called on her at this time of night had he not been interested in playing these games, she thinks, and certain enough, he rises from the chair. “As you wish, my queen,” he says, a quirked little smile on his lips despite the solemnity of his voice, and he leaves her chambers, boots tapping softly on the floor outside. This gives her just enough time to hide her half-finished letter in a book on the shelf and sit back down at her table, before he returns, steaming cup in hand.

“I seem to have intercepted your maid in passing,” he says. He holds out the cup to her and inclines his head.

Sansa shakes her head. “Put it on the mantle,” she says, “where it will keep warm.” 

“Aye.” He does.

She appraises him from across the room, where he stands by the fireplace. The flicker of the flames in the low light of the room casts an amber glow on the grey in his hair. She holds out an arm, and cocks one finger. “Come to me, Lord Baelish. Show me how much you’ve missed me, in your time in the Free Cities.”

She knows he prefers to be called Petyr in these circumstances, but she rarely indulges him in this way. The propriety of titles, under such tawdry circumstances, both appeals to her noble side and makes him churn with visible discomfort. As he crosses the room, he drops to his knees in front of her chair. She sits up, back ramrod straight, as if her writing chair were a private throne.

She kisses him lightly, her hands on either side of his face, teasing his lips apart with her tongue. He opens easily, like slicing the skin of a summer fruit, and as the kiss deepens, she feels him breathe in, a man deprived of a woman’s touch for over a month now. She knows him too well, trusts that he did not partake with his whores even as he attended to their business, because he is sworn to her and her alone, and this may be the only vow Littlefinger has ever kept.

She nips at his bottom lip, biting down as she pulls away. With her hands still resting on either of his rough cheeks, she gazes down her nose into grey-green eyes. Petyr smirks up at her, but does not touch her. Not until he’s told. Not yet. 

“My queen,” he says again. “I’m yours. Command me.”

Sansa glances away, again feigning disinterest. “Take off your clothes,” she says, reclining back in her chair.

“Your room is drafty, my queen –”

“Then stoke the fire before you do,” she says. “It has been too long, Lord Baelish. I wish to see all of you tonight. The picture in my mind’s eye has grown weak.”

And Petyr obeys. He stokes the fire with a master’s hand, and then before the flames, he unbuttons his doublet, shrugging out of it and tossing it over the empty chair. He removes his boots, then slowly begins to unlace his breeches, never looking away from Sansa, who watches with a cool sort of smile playing on her face. When he’s bared before her, effortlessly confident despite his vulnerable position, she nods, and he drops back to his knees on the rug beside her chair.

She’s played with him like this before, once taking up a book to see how long she could read and ignore him before he spoke up. But it has been a long month in his absence, and she lacks the patience for such games tonight, so instead, she reclines in her chair, spreading her legs slightly and watching his lips twitch and his cock harden perceptibly. “Come closer,” she says, “and lay your head upon my lap.”

He does as she bids him, looking up at her through heavily lidded eyes as she feels a heat start to pool between her legs. Her wool dress has begun to feel too warm for the room, and she can feel a slight pricking of sweat at the back of her neck along her hairline. As she strokes his hair, he nuzzles against her thigh, inhaling deeply.

It still strikes her as unusual, to see Lord Baelish – normally the picture of control, in other every way imaginable – give it up so freely. He obeys her as soon as she commands him. When he first explained these desires to her, she did not fully understand, but as she grew more comfortable in the role of his commander, she slowly realized the appeal of her own position. He does not touch her until she demands it, does not lose control until she allows him. She still does not trust him fully outside of her bedchamber, where she senses she is still a piece in the game—no longer a mere pawn, but still a queen on a chessboard, moved strategically about by players she only knows in shadow.

Yet if this is what he desires – a firm hand, a strong command, the Queen in the North and her mockingbird on his knees before her – she will provide it. She will not trust and she will not love, but she will desire. 

And desire she does.

She lifts his head from her lap, sliding one hand along his cheek, the pad of her thumb tracing his cheekbone, and pushes her chair back to stand. “My queen,” he says as she does, “might I unlace your gown?”

“No,” she purrs as one hand drifts to the laces in the back. “But you may watch.” This dress is not difficult to unlace, and as she lifts it over her head, she smiles to herself, noting how his eyes rake hungrily over her body. The thin shift, all that lies beneath, is sewn of fine Dornish silk, not quite warm against the winter winds but soft and sheer against her body. She runs her hands over her body, nipples forming hardened peaks against the silk of her shift in the drafty room. Petyr is transfixed, as ever, and she smiles, rubs her palm against her mound, and then, slowly, slides her hand between her legs and beneath her shift to run two fingers through the wetness collecting there.

“Mm,” she sighs, stepping closer to Petyr, whose eyes have gone dark with desire. His lips part as she holds out her hand. She slides her fingers into his mouth and he sucks on them greedily, lifting his eyes to hold her gaze as he licks and sucks her flavor off her thin digits. This simple act of unbridled desire sends another jolt of want through her, so hard it makes her shiver. 

She withdraws her hand, then pats his cheek affectionately. “Thank you, my queen,” he murmurs, lips quirked in a ghost of a smile. As she glances down, she can see that his cock is hard and straining against his belly, and the taut, lean muscles of his thighs and abdomen flex and release in active self-restraint. With one finger, she traces the scar on his chest, leaning in to kiss him lightly as she does. She can barely taste herself on his lips.

She smiles serenely as she pulls away. His breathing is just this side of ragged, and he can see from the way his hands tremble at his sides that he’s struggling to hold his composure. “Seven hells,” he rasps. “Please. Touch me.”

She stands up to her full height, looking down at him, hands folded behind her back. “Excuse me?”

“My queen,” he adds. “Please touch me. Please—I’m not above begging, you know.”

“I do not invite beggars into my bed,” she says icily.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Pulling away, she strides toward the bed and sits on the edge. Her shift, she decides will stay on. The room is chilled, even with the roaring fire. “Come to me,” she beckons, and as Petyr shifts to move to his feet, she shakes her head sharply. “Don’t stand,” she adds. “Crawl to your queen.”

He takes a deep breath, and falls forward onto hands and knees, gaze shifting to the floor as he crawls to her. When he reaches the foot of the bed, he straightens up, kneeling before her, eyes cast down. She parts her knees and lifts her right leg, resting her bare foot on his shoulder.

Petyr looks up to meet her smile. “My queen,” he says. “May I kiss your foot?”

She nods, and he catches her slim ankle in one of his wide, strong hands. Slowly, almost infuriatingly slowly, he kisses his way up her long legs, his mustache tickling against her skin as she melts into his touch. He has always been good at this. Neither Margaery nor Myranda’s advice had prepared her for a man who knew how to use his mouth in such ways, but she supposes it only makes sense, that a man who made his fortune in pleasure houses would be knowledgeable about the uses of pleasure. His lips and tongue move softly against her pale, creamy skin as she parts her legs and yields to him, letting him push her shift up around her waist, slide his hands beneath her and bring her right to his mouth. 

“Your grace,” he says, and the words form a question. 

“You may,” she says coolly, and Petyr smiles, leans forward and runs the tip of his tongue down her lips.

Up and down her folds, lightly at first and then more insistently. She lets out a slight moan, and his eyes quirk up from where he’s buried between her legs. There’s a glint of mischief and pride hidden there, and she bites back a second groan. His tongue is hot against her, circling and flicking, and the sensation overwhelms her. She lets herself fall back onto the bedclothes, her eyes closed and her breath hitching in her chest as he brings her closer and closer to the edge. One arm extends down to grab at his hair, and she can hear her own voice biting out a lusty litany, all the old gods and the new invoked at once, and the Ironborn may say that what is dead may never die but she swears she could live forever in the moment where Petyr sends her tumbling over that blissful edge.

When she opens her eyes, he’s still on his knees before her, his lips and beard shiny with evidence of his handiwork. She inhales and elbows up to a sitting position, taking his face between her two hands and stroking the graceful lines of his jaw and cheekbones. She ghosts a finger over his lips and smiles as they part for her, but withdraws her hand all the same, and replaces it with her own lips. She has grown fond of her own taste, particularly on his mouth.

He mumbles something against her lips, and she opens her eyes. In the corner of her vision, she notices his hand moving beneath them, and she pulls away, straightening up again, and catches his wrist in one of her own hands.

“Do that again without permission,” she says, “and you’ll have no release at all tonight.”

“Yes, my queen. I’m sorry.” He inclines his head in a contrite nod, and Sansa drops his wrist and stands, crossing the room to retrieve her wine from the fireplace. Petyr doesn’t change position, but his eyes follow her as she moves, and she smiles as she lifts the goblet to her lips.

“On the bed,” she says decisively, and, anticipating his next question, she adds, “on your back.” He’s graceful as he moves into position, reclining against the fur throw in the dim firelight of the room, as effortlessly confident in his vulnerability as he is at any other time. She watches, taking another mouthful of the wine.

When she strides to the side of the bed, she slips her shift over her head and drops it to the floor. His sharp intake of breath is audible over the crackle of the fire, and she smiles, catlike, and climbs onto the bed herself, sliding up his body and straddling his waist. Her hair pools on his chest as she inclines her head. She looks down, biting her lip, as she grinds against his shaft. When he moans her name, she falls forward to cover his mouth with hers. The kiss is hot and hard, insistent and almost vicious. She thrusts her tongue into his mouth and he sucks and bites at it greedily.

“Never forget where you belong,” she breathes as she pulls away, trailing her hair along his chest and making him arch into the feather-light contact. “Never forget, Lord Baelish, which queen you have chosen to serve.”

“Please,” he groans. 

“Look at me.”

His eyes snap open and Sansa flips her hair back, pulls up her shoulders and chin to regard him, regal and cruel, from where she sits atop him. His lips part and his chest heaves in restraint. He’s the perfect picture of debauchery, the furthest sight imaginable from Littlefinger’s charming, collected façade. Words from a lifetime ago, _the best weapon’s between your legs_ , echo in the periphery of her mind as she lifts one finger and traces the length of his hot, velvet hardness.

The best weapons are ones that never have to see battle. She won’t fuck him tonight. She never does. Her power lies not in the act of seduction, but in the act of pulling back, remaining just the slightest bit untouchable.

“Very good,” she purrs. She takes him in her hand and he almost jumps at the touch, gasping as she strokes. “You’ve been very well-behaved.”

“Please, my queen,” he murmurs. “I want—I want to be inside you, want all of you atop me.”

She smiles. “No.”

With a final stroke, he spurts into her fist. He thanks her as he does.

She slides off him, wipes her hand haphazardly on the bedclothes. Thankfully her handmaid has proven herself trustworthy, or else the stain would require an artful lie tomorrow. She curls up beside him, lays her head upon his chest and soaks in the rise and fall as his breath returns to a normal pace. He’s glossy-eyed and blank, but manages to slide an arm beneath her and curl it over her side, resting on her smooth stomach. 

“I am yours,” Petyr whispers, his voice raspy and low beside her, “and you are mine.”

It’s true, she thinks, in more ways than one.


End file.
